


Rearranged

by Sophie_skates_reads



Series: The Confounding and Chaotic Tales of Plisetsky-Altins (and how THAT Mess came to be) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alpha Otabek Altin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - College/University, Assumed Mpreg, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Omega Yuri Plisetsky, Post Arranged Marriage, This is late, YOI Omegaverse Week, birthday fic, oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: Sequel toArranged,please read that first, though you might be able to understand this without it.21-year-old Yuri Plisetsky never wanted to buy into the government's, frankly creepy, arranged marriage program. After finding out that his mate was rich, though, and desperately in need of funds for his grandfather's new medication, Yuri takes the plunge and agrees to be wedded to an alpha he's never met. And, naturally, since the universe hates him, he goes into heat on his wedding day.Directly followingArranged,join Yuri and Otabek as they stumble their way through their new relationship, the fallout of an unplanned heat, and, fuck, maybe a baby, too?***Or: It takes me 21 pages to get to the main plot of the story and the entire damn thing is only 32 pages long-- three times the intended length, and three weeks past the intended posting date. XD
Relationships: Mila Babicheva & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: The Confounding and Chaotic Tales of Plisetsky-Altins (and how THAT Mess came to be) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867903
Comments: 26
Kudos: 95
Collections: YOI Omegaverse Week





	Rearranged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venom_for_free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free/gifts).



> For Venom, because you deserve a birthday gift that's hopefully even half as lovely as you. And this legitimately would never have even been thought of without you and our crazy prompt-book dynamic. I hope you like it! ♥
> 
> This was not supposed to be what it is. But several ideas, two excitable authors, and one comment chain later, my original idea for YOI Omegaverse week's Wednesday prompt "college" was tossed out the window, and this came to be. XD

The aftermath of an arranged marriage was weird. That was nothing abnormal: when you got married to some person, fucked each other’s brains out, and only in the morning learned each other’s middle names, things were bound to be a little awkward. The aftermath of _Yuri’s_ arranged marriage/accidental heat, was decidedly different.

Which was to say, much, much worse.

Yuri came to in bed, curled into damp, sticky blankets, and covered in crusted sweat. At first, Yuri struggled to remember anything other than his own name, the fact that he was covered in something decidedly disgusting, and the fact that he, and his bedding, for that matter, were covered in a scent that _was not his own._

And then, as things so often do, with that one, tiny tidbit of sensory input, everything came pelting back at him, clobbering him over the head with fragmented pieces of information that made absolutely _zero_ sense. 

Snippets of orchestral music, a gown, and a groom chased each other around his fuzzy mind, banging into the sides of his skull and worsening the headache steadily blooming in his temples. He already felt like shit, his limbs weighted down with lead, his hips sore and his back stiff, so, really, this new type of pain went less than appreciated.

Yuri’s eyes flew open. His back hurt, his hips hurt, all of his limbs were far heavier than one would expect, and he could feel himself covered in several sticky somethings that he knew all too well.

Slick and cum were dried onto him: his stomach, his thighs, even the blankets were an absolute mess. Yuri’s stomach turned.

He was in heat. Or, he _had been_ in heat, but was not anymore, judging by the noticeable _lack_ of arousal burning through his veins. Swallowing down the nausea quickly growing in the restless, rolling pit of Yuri’s stomach, he exerted far more effort than he appreciated having to expend moving his arm, and grabbed his phone from where he could see it lying on the bedside table.

Fear and panic clawing their way up his throat, Yuri eyed the display. He remembered hardly anything, but he could make out enough to know that he _had_ been at the wedding, and for that reason desperately hoped that it was any day after the tenth of September, because if it was the tenth of September, then he had a very good reason for not remembering anything past the altar at the wedding, a reason he desperately wanted to be invalid.

Yuri swore. Colorfully.

 _He had gone into heat at the wedding? At the wedding of the arranged marriage he did not want to a man he had never met?_

Yuri felt the bile rising in his throat as the thought of the groom returned and _oh shit,_ a distinct scent accompanied it. A scent that Yuri remembered clearly. A scent that Yuri was currently covered in.

Well, _fuck._

Yuri groaned aloud, turning his gaze to the other side of the bed to where he expected to see an unconscious alpha, but instead, the bed was empty, and just as Yuri’s eyebrows creased in confusion, a quiet knock on the door sounded.

“Mila?” Yuri asked, for the fact that he was in his own apartment and not some weird, alpha den made him sure that she had gotten him home-- and the formal suit jacket he now saw tangled in the covers of the bed explained why Yuri smelled like the man he assumed was now currently his husband.

Relief coursed through Yuri. Of course; why had he doubted her? Mila would _never_ let a strange alpha, his husband or not, take Yuri home during his heat. Sure, his soulmate probably wouldn’t _deliberately_ try to jump him, he was fairly certain of that, but an omega in heat was enough to lose an alpha possession of their mind for a time; they likely wouldn’t have wanted to _rape_ Yuri, but it would be exceedingly strange for them to resist.

“Not Mila, sorry,” a distinctly _male_ voice called through the door, and oh no. “She went home a while ago,” she had? A while as in three days ago? It seemed like a bit of a stretch but that was _so_ not the thing Yuri was focusing on right now.

Yuri lay, frozen, in bed as horror washed through him. He had been stupid in thinking that the jacket had been enough to make Yuri smell like his apparently-now-husband. Yuri was positively _drenched_ in the alpha’s scent-- he’d obviously been all over him. Yuri felt a resurgence of the nausea and shut his eyes tightly.

There was that voice on the outside of the door again, and it sounded slightly nervous. “Um, are you okay in there?” The voice asked, “Do you need anything? You haven’t eaten since before the wedding, so you’re probably starving-- uhm, is there something I can bring you?” At another time, Yuri would find the hesitation and slight trace of nervous babbling in his husband’s voice at that moment adorable. 

Now was not that time, though, and Yuri’s stomach gave a loud rumble, so he simply called back, hoping the voice would leave him alone to stew in his mortification a little longer, “Uh, okay.” 

There was shuffling on the other side of the door, then more, until, “Um, anything in particular?”

Yuri was at a loss. “Whatever I have?” Which was admittedly not much, but Yuri knew he had soup in the pantry, so that was something.

“Got it,” came the voice, and then retreating footsteps. 

Yuri gulped. 

When the door opened again, not five minutes later, Yuri had dragged the cleanest blankets around him, ensuring that he was thoroughly covered up (he knew that it didn’t make much difference-- the man had already seen him naked after all, but still), only his chin above the blankets.

The rap on the door came again, this time followed by the hesitant voice, “Um, I found solyanka? Can I come in to give it to you?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said, feeling his face burn red even as the door opened. A tray came into view first, carried carefully, and then a man appeared behind it. He lingered slightly at the door, reaching out as if to close it, then hesitated, and ended up just turning to Yuri, standing awkwardly by the bedside table-- within reach but respectfully far away. When he turned to face him, though, Yuri’s heart leapt into his throat. At the sight of this man’s face, several things came rushing back. 

Leaning against him as they greeted guests at the reception; sitting next to him at the top table during dinner; and then, last, the man’s arms around him, his scent in Yuri’s nose as he carried him out of the venue, the latter in full-blown heat. These things, though, paid very little attention to the actual figure of the man before Yuri. A little short, but built like a Greek _fucking_ god, and with the most beautiful features, the alpha was just stared at for a moment, and then, his mental faculties returning, Yuri quickly averted his eyes, emitting a very proper sound and avoiding the man’s gaze.

Tentatively, the man held out the tray he carried, a bowl of soup, some crackers, and a glass of water resting on it, before carefully depositing it in Yuri’s arms.

“Thanks,” he muttered, settling the tray awkwardly in his lap and trying to keep the covers up to his neck at the same time-- all of it in a nonchalant, not-noticeable manner, of course. 

Because the universe hated him, though, Yuri failed abysmally, and his desperate grab for the blankets falling to reveal his chest and prompt yanking of them up to his chin made his intent painfully apparent. Yuri’s cheeks glowed, but, mercifully, the god standing at the bedside table had the tact to pretend not to notice.

“No problem,” he said, giving a shy sort of half-smile, and _oh god,_ that smile might just _end_ Yuri, but his husband continued on before he could fall into the oblivion induced by the soft blush rising on the former’s cheeks and the _dimple_ residing in one. “Uhm, how are you feeling?”

“Uh, okay,” Yuri said, though the end of the word rose up like a question. “Fairly normal, for after a stresser.”

“You’ve had them before?” The alpha asked before cringing slightly and rephrasing, “I mean… a stresser, you called it? Like, when it’s a surprise?”

Yuri nodded and took a bite of soup to distract from his burning cheeks. Which turned out to be a stupid move, since now his tongue was burning in addition to his cheeks, and he coughed and spluttered rather fantastically for several moments before taking a gulp of water and regaining his ability to breathe. 

He glared at the soup for a second as his breathing re-established its pattern, before remembering to respond. “Yeah, once or twice. They can be nasty.” 

The brunet nodded, “Yeah, you seemed pretty agitated.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he looked like he wanted to slap himself in the face, “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s fine,” Yuri mumbled, looking down and taking a measured sip of soup; thankfully, his airways remained intact this time. “You have the right to ask-- you were with me for one.” And his cheeks were glowing again. _Dammit._

“Still,” the man shrugged, shifting awkwardly, “I don’t want to be rude.”

“You weren’t.” Yuri said and the man nodded determinedly.

“Good.” He said. They both remained there for a second, swapping poorly hidden glances at each other and staring at the floor. “So, um,” he said after a while, breaking the silence and braving eye contact with Yuri. “I’ll let you rest. Uh, if you need anything, yell, since you probably need to recover, and, uh, I’ll be in the living room.” He stopped when Yuri blinked, “If that’s okay, that is,” he added quickly, “Mila said it would be fine if I slept on the couch as long as you didn’t mind, but, uh, if you want me to go I can--”

“It’s fine,” Yuri put him out of his misery, cutting off the babbling that seemed dead set on forcing itself into being. “I don’t mind, if, um, you don’t.”

“I don’t,” he said, “as long as it’s okay with you--” he cut himself off, wincing. “Okay, yeah,” he said after a moment’s pause, more composed, “I’ll be out there, if you need anything.”

“Got it,” Yuri nodded, giving him a thumbs up. 

_God,_ this was so _weird._

“So, uh, bye.” Otabek said as he began to back towards the door-- apparently not wanting to seem impolite and turn his back on Yuri.

“Bye.” Yuri gave a little wave. The door pulled shut and Yuri deflated against the pillows, cheeks a spectacular shade of maroon. 

_Fucking pale skin._

***

The recovery time for a heat was fairly standard-- a day or so in bed, regaining the ability to use the lower half of your body, and warm baths followed by cuddling up in warm blankets while doing a blissful _nothing._

Recovery from a stresser was similar, the only adjustments being that, since the body didn’t get to prepare for an extra-strength heat properly, everything was more tender. Yuri was no exception to this rule and, for the next four hours, he floated in and out of sleep, stomach full but painfully uncomfortable in a den of stale sweat and sticky fluids. When his discomfort finally became too much, he roused himself and took stock of his body. His ass hurt, obviously, and the skin on the inside of his thighs was chafed, but he was able to swing his legs over the side of the bed with minimal pain. Then his thigh landed directly in a puddle of Yuri-didn’t-want-to think-what, and Yuri jerked to his feet on impact. 

Yuri hissed as a bolt of pain ran through his lower back, and whimpered slightly as he braced himself on the nightstand. He was filthy, that much was obvious, and now that he had had a perfunctory rest, _Yuri couldn’t stand it._ That had always been one of his biggest issues with heats: along with his body completely disregarding his wishes and turning him into a helpless, defenseless, arousal-driven zombie, the mess really bothered him. 

It wasn’t that Yuri was naturally a neat freak, but, he thought, there was something about being completely coated in congealed bodily fluids -- even if they _were_ your own -- that was just inherently disgusting. Needless to say, Yuri always dragged himself to the shower as soon as he could move. Now was no exception, and Yuri whimpered quietly as he moved gingerly across the room, only stopping when he heard movement outside. 

_Fuck._ He had forgotten about the dude. The his-husband dude. The dude whose name he still didn’t know. 

Carefully, Yuri peeked out of the bedroom door, only opening it a crack. He could see his target in the living room, sitting on the couch with his back to him, and turned his gaze to the bathroom, up the hall in the other direction. He looked between them.

Suddenly very aware of his physical state (naked, gross), Yuri swallowed, and cast a glance back over his shoulder to the bed, blankets twisted and tangled and contaminated in _so many different ways._ He could grab one of them, wrap it around himself like a toga and make a break for the bathroom, hoping his husband wouldn’t notice. He bit his lip. 

But the bed was _so far_ and the blankets were _so gross._ He looked back out the door again, staring at the nape of the man’s neck. He raised a hand to scratch it, and glanced over his shoulder. Yuri plastered himself to the door, heat rising in his cheeks.

Carefully, Yuri glanced back around the doorframe and, with relief, found that his husband was, again, reading his book, back turned. Yuri took a deep breath, closed his eyes; he knew what he had to do.  
Yuri streaked out from his bedroom, moving as quickly and quietly as possible, and away from his company, scurrying into the bathroom and shutting the door -- hopefully noiselessly -- behind him. Yuri sagged against the closed door, relief and thudding pain in his ass and lower back rendering him immobile for a moment.

At last, Yuri managed to pull himself away from the woodgrain and turn on the tub, letting the hot water pound out of the faucet and fill the bath. When he deemed it sufficiently full, Yuri slipped in, and sighed as the balmy water enveloped him, relaxing tense muscles and beginning the process of cleansing Yuri’s body. 

Fifteen blissful minutes later, Yuri forced himself out of the bath, hair and body wonderfully, miraculously, euphorically _clean,_ wrapping himself in two towels, and again peeking outside the door. Yuri’s husband appeared to be in the kitchen, out of sight, and Yuri hurried back through to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

The hot bath had taken a lot of the pain out of walking, and Yuri was only mildly uncomfortable as he got dressed in large, cushy pajamas, though the exhaustion of the morning had settled over him once again and he was eager to curl up in bed and sleep a while. Except, when Yuri approached the bed, his stomach turned. 

Okay so he was _not_ sleeping in that nest of nasty, that was for sure. When Yuri thought of changing the sheets, though, a small whine escaped his lips. 

He was _tired,_ he didn’t _want_ to remake the bed. For a moment Yuri contemplated making himself a nest of blankets on the floor, but scrapped the idea when he remembered that all of his spare bedding had been packed away in boxes in preparation for the move. Distressed and sleepy, Yuri wandered into the hall again, glancing around the apartment to gauge where his husband was within it, and if he could get to the boxes and back without being noticed. He wasn’t specifically _avoiding_ him, but, at the same time, the man’s initial first impression of Yuri had been of him delirious with lust and soaking through his underwear, and Yuri would prefer to make a better second one, if at all possible. He couldn’t do that in his pajamas. 

A cursory glance around the apartment, though, showed it to be uninhabited aside from Potya, who mewed at him from her perch atop the fridge. Hope bloomed in Yuri’s chest-- had the alpha left? Maybe he had gone home to sleep after discovering how horrendously uncomfortable the couch was and was going to return in a few days, once Yuri was more… _Yuri._

Satisfied that he was safe from impression-forming eyes, Yuri moved across the apartment to the living room where the boxes of bedding were. Opening one, he spied the couch, and, suddenly, it seemed _such_ a good idea just to go to sleep here. The bedroom was so _far,_ after all, and a couch, however uncomfortable, was infinitely better on a sore back than the floor. 

Decision made, Yuri lost no time in piling the blankets onto the couch and snuggling into them, wrapping himself into a burrito of soft fabric and warmth. Contented and _definitely not_ purring, Yuri drifted off to sleep.

***

Yuri awoke to a scent. A scent that was not his own, but was comforting in and of itself. What was it? It was familiar, but Yuri couldn’t place it. 

Groggily, Yuri opened his eyes, blinking hazily in the dim twilight drifting in from the window, and made out a shape from the corner of his eye. Turning slightly in his cocoon of bedding, Yuri saw a figure (who the scent belonged to!) moving around in the kitchen. Yuri squinted, and the figure of his husband registered in his slightly-unfocused, sleep-fogged eyes.

“Oh!” The man started slightly as he turned around, seeing Yuri staring at him. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Uh,” Yuri fought down a yawn, willing his brain back to its full capabilities in the face of the thoroughly unfamiliar situation. “You didn’t.” Even though he kinda did.

“Oh, well, that’s good.” The man said, and Yuri nodded, slowly processing the nuances of their interaction, “I, um, went shopping,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the bags of groceries Yuri just then realized were on the tiny kitchen table. “Do you mind?”

“Uh, no?” Yuri said stupidly, before shaking his head to clear it, common and social sense returning. “Let me help you with that,” he said quickly, beginning the fight to extricate himself from the inescapable blanket burrito in which he found himself.

“No, it’s fine.” His husband said quickly, gesturing for Yuri to remain seated/lying down-ish. “You rest.”

“Oh…” Yuri murmured awkwardly, “okay.” He hesitantly ceased his tussle with his blanket-captors and eased himself into a weird, swaddled sort of sitting position. He played with his hands as the other man continued putting things away in the kitchen (how did he know where everything went???), staring at the black TV before him and wishing the weirdness away. From the corner of his eye, he saw a blurry, fluffy blob move and swat at his husband as he tried to access the cabinet next to the fridge. The man paused, hesitated, then opened a cabinet two down from the initial one. Potya’s hiss faded slightly.

Yuri was just opening his mouth to speak, not entirely sure what he was planning to say but thinking of apologizing for his cat’s behavior, when he was interrupted, his husband calling “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure,” Yuri changed whatever was about to come out of his mouth and waited as the other poured the drink into two mugs he seemed to have unpacked. Yuri didn’t miss the way he refilled Potya’s water bowl on the counter. 

He moved around the couch, offering a mug to Yuri, before glancing around the living room. Presumably for somewhere to sit, Yuri realized belatedly, and hurriedly shuffled to the side in the blankets that bound him. “Sorry,” Yuri shrugged awkwardly as the alpha turned to look at him, drawn by the motion. “I used to use folding chairs, but I gave them to Mila for the move.”

He nodded, sitting obediently down in the proffered spot next to Yuri. 

They sat in silence for a while, sipping on their tea and staring away from each other, the atmosphere palpably tense. Potya did nothing to help, and left her kitchen perch, waltzing over to the couch and daintily kneading the alpha’s jeans. The man stiffened (Yuri knew her claws were fucking _sharp)_ but instead of pushing her off (it wouldn’t have worked anyway: Potya was a little bitch when she wanted to be, and she always did), he carefully reached out to pet her head.

A minute passed while Yuri stammered apologies and his husband cradled his hand to his chest, purposefully leaning away from Potya, who had yet to vacate his lap and now stared menacingly at them both.

Slowly, as Potya settled down into a fluffy ball on the man’s lap and Yuri’s apologies withered away, rebuffed by the man’s stalwart insistence that it was fine, and that the bleeding had stopped, they lapsed back into silence.

“Okay,” A silence that lasted all of five (excruciating) minutes, before Yuri’s husband promptly broke it. Yuri turned on the couch to look at him. “So, um, I know that this is an admittedly _really weird_ situation, but, uh, well, we’ll be living together for the foreseeable future and I think that our lives would be much easier if we just, uh, stopped being awkward.” A beat. Two. Three.

Yuri giggled. He couldn’t help it. His hormones were still all over the place from his heat and he was tired and what his husband had said was just… _funny._ Stop being awkward? Yuri cracked up. 

The man next to him shifted uneasily (then froze in place when Potya let out a warning hiss at the motion) and it occurred to Yuri that his laughter might be misinterpreted. 

“Sorry,” he said, making an effort to calm down, “sorry, I’m not laughing at you. Just… _stop being awkward?”_ The giggling continued and, slowly, a small curve appeared in his husband’s lips.

“Okay, not one of my most articulate moments,” he admitted, and Yuri nodded.

“I would really hope not,” he agreed before evening out his breathing back to a normal pattern. “But whatever-- it’s the thought that counts. And, uhm, in the spirit of _not being awkward,”_ the man winced and Yuri could already tell that this would be a running joke for a long time to come, “I do have a question.”

“Shoot.” The man nodded.

“Uhm, this is going to sound really bad, but…” Yuri hesitated, biting his lip. Then, all in a rush, “What’syourname?” The man blinked, and Yuri hurried on, “Sorry, it’s just that I was really out of it for the wedding, and after it we didn’t really get to, uh, talk, so I never really found out--”

“Otabek.” The man interrupted him, and Yuri blinked. What? Did he sneeze? “My name is Otabek,” He _(Otabek,_ apparently) clarified.

“Oh,” Yuri gave a singular nod, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Right. That’s a cool name.”

“Thanks.” Otabek said, before adding. “So is ‘Yuri.’”

Yuri rolled his eyes, “It’s like the third most common name in Russia and it means ‘farmer’-- not exactly creative.”

“Still,” Otabek shrugged, “people must like it a lot if that many people are named it.”

Yuri jerked his head in a ‘whatever’ gesture before turning to face Otabek. “So,” he said, “now what?”

“Now,” Otabek said, “I ask very not-awkwardly if I can stay with you for the next two weeks since I moved out of my apartment and we can’t move into the new one until the ‘honeymoon’ is over.” 

Yuri blinked. “Uh, sure?”

“Cool,” Otabek nodded, and they went back to drinking their tea in silence.

It was only once Potya finally vacated Otabek’s lap (his sigh of relief wasn’t stifled quickly enough and Yuri suppressed a grin as he blushed) and climbed onto her favored but Very Precarious perch on top of the TV, that Yuri gestured to it.

“Wanna watch something?” He asked and Otabek nodded. “‘s _Friends_ okay?” It was on Mila’s Netflix that he routinely stole and it seemed like a safe enough choice. 

Another nod.

Yuri maneuvered onto the show’s home page and started at the episode he was on, even though he’d watched the whole thing six times over. Watching was made a bit difficult by Potya’s very fluffy self sitting on top of the TV and obscuring the majority of the screen, but Otabek didn’t say anything, and Yuri was used to the challenge that was his cat. 

They watched the remainder of the episode in silence and, when the next played, they both raised their hands and clapped along. Yuri felt a small grin slip onto his face when Potya moved, swishing her tail across the screen, and both Yuri and Otabek leaned to the left to continue watching the show.

“Huh,” Yuri said as a duck appeared on screen. “I guess it’s easy to _stop being awkward,_ after all.” Otabek groaned and a small smile played on Yuri’s lips.

***

Life with Otabek, it seemed, was easy. Otabek had insisted on sleeping on the couch for the duration of his stay and, after a short but relatively heated debate, it was decided that they would set up Otabek’s bed first once they got to the new apartment, to make up for it. (Yuri was internally _so grateful_ that they would have separate rooms; it didn’t seem like Otabek to force Yuri into sharing a bed with him, especially not immediately, but, still, Yuri had heard horror stories.)

Slowly, methodically, they worked together to finish packing the contents of Yuri’s tiny apartment at the two weeks’ end. They’d unpacked quite a bit, since, before, they’d thought that they would be on their honeymoon in Barcelona for this time (Yuri had apologized profusely for that and Otabek had assured him that it was fine tenfold) and Yuri had had the apartment almost ready to be moved out of. Now, though, with a further two weeks of its occupation plus-a-guest, it needed to be livable again.

Throughout their first two weeks of cohabitation, Yuri learned a lot about Otabek, and him likewise about Yuri. Otabek was a musician, the face behind the mysterious “Gold”, the artist who had swept the world off its feet with his music, and Yuri had fangirled for a solid five minutes upon finding out. (Otabek was very impressed when told that Yuri was a dancer at Juilliard, close to graduating and starring in their winter showcase of The Nutcracker as the show’s namesake.) 

Otabek had two sisters, one older, one younger, and had grown up in Almaty, Kazakhstan. (Yuri was an only child and they brushed past the topic of his family rather quickly, Otabek cottoning on to his reluctance to talk about it and asking about his grandfather instead, which Yuri appreciated, and was born and raised in Moscow, Russia before moving to New York for Juilliard.) Otabek had moved to the US for his record label, finding it easier to live in New York than constantly skyping from home, and had no pets. (Of course, here Potya was brought up, and Otabek patiently looked through all 300 photos of her in Yuri’s phone album as the little queen herself watched over their shoulders from her customary perch on the fridge.) 

Otabek’s favorite color was green (blue), his favorite type of music, classical (really? I like literally anything that _isn’t_ popular… plus your stuff), and his favorite style of food, Indian (nice! That and Chinese are tied for me-- but my grandpa’s piroshki is literal nectar and ambrosia, so nothing can really compare, anyway.). 

In short, within two weeks of knowing each other, Yuri felt like he’d known his soulmate his entire life-- though, he supposed, that was kind of the way the whole ‘soulmate’ thing worked.  
Yuri was introduced to Otabek’s family (how are they all _so nice?)_ and Otabek to Yuri’s grandpa and Mila _(Dedushka_ loved Otabek; he loved Yuri’s shy, little grin when looking at Otabek more) (Mila just nodded at him; “Yura, you freak, we’ve met,”) and, by the time they started to haul their shit into their new place, Yuri was starting to think that this whole arranged marriage thing wasn’t so bad.

Which, naturally, was when all hell broke loose.

Mila and Leo had been invited over to help (Leo had been Otabek’s best man at the wedding, apparently, though Yuri remembered nothing of it) and, instead of knocking like a normal human being, Mila simply slammed the door of Yuri’s about-to-be-former apartment open with a bang, making both Otabek and Yuri jump, and threw herself upon Yuri.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving HellHole!” She theatre-sobbed into Yuri’s hair, knocking him to the ground and pinning him with the force of her leap. “I never thought you’d go!”

“What the fuck, baba!” Yuri snarled, pushing uselessly at her as she clung onto him. “And for the last time, this place doesn’t have a fucking name-- stop trying to give it one!”

Mila just held on tighter and Yuri sighed in annoyance, accepting that he’d be on the floor until she decided to let him up. She may have only been a few inches taller than him and possessed a ballerina’s willowy form, but, _damn,_ the hag was strong.

Upside down, Yuri saw Otabek’s nervous face hovering over him, looking ready to pull Mila off, should Yuri ask. Yuri just shook his head tiredly, rolling his eyes. This behavior was nothing new: Mila seemed to have forgotten to outgrow the whiny toddler phase. So had Yuri, as she so often said, but Yuri chose to ignore that for now.

Otabek nodded and uneasily went back to taping up a box of the blankets that had previously been his bed on the couch, but stayed close by, glancing at the pair on the floor.

When Mila finally got bored and heaved herself off of Yuri, Yuri felt bedraggled, disheveled, and very ruffled. Otabek gave him a sympathetic quirk of the lips and offered a hand to help him up. Yuri took it, and didn’t miss it when Otabek gave him a quick once over. 

“You okay?” He asked, and Yuri nodded,

“That’s just Mila,” he muttered back, shaking his head dismissively, “if she didn’t try to crack my head open and hug my brains out every time she saw me, something would be seriously wrong.” Otabek’s brow wrinkled slightly, but he nodded, and the subject was dropped.

When Leo arrived, it was with far less spectacle, and, thankfully, Yuri wasn’t tackled to the ground this time. Instead Leo just gave Otabek one of those weird bro hug things and introduced himself to Yuri with a handshake, guessing (rightly) that he remembered a whole lot of nothing about their initial meeting at the wedding. With a raised hand to Mila, who he had met at the aforementioned event, they began to work in earnest, everything packed and ready to be carried down four flights of stairs and into the waiting U-HAUL truck below.

***

Maybe they should have enlisted more people to help them than just Leo and Mila, Yuri thought as he crouched to grasp the feet of the ratty old couch, Leo on the other side, after trekking back up the stairs for the umpteenth time. 

They weren’t planning to take the couch with them, the crappy piece of furniture thoroughly unnecessary, but they still had to get it down the stairs to the dumpster below, and, sadly, the dumpster wasn’t positioned just under the windowsill, though Yuri doubted anyone would’ve let him dispose of it that way, anyway.

Yuri glanced at the clock as he wrapped his hands around the feet of the couch-- seven o’clock, and it would be another hour or so before he would even be able to eat dinner, let alone get to bed on time. Yuri sighed; his first day back at Juilliard was tomorrow and it would be their first dress rehearsal, though the show wasn’t for another month, yet. Moving all of this shit would definitely make the day more difficult, but, oh well, what could he do?

Yuri was just about to lift the couch with Leo, when, returning up the stairs, Otabek caught sight of him and hurried over. “Let me do that,” he said, gently pushing Yuri away from the couch. “Why don’t you take a break?” 

Yuri quirked an eyebrow at him. “Okay?” He said, confused, but backed away, anyway, and let Otabek and Leo heft the monstrosity of the couch into the air.

“Fucking hell,” Leo huffed, “this thing is heavy!”

“I know,” Otabek said, wincing, “I had to move it last week when Potya got stuck-- it was not fun.” Yuri bit back a smile at the memory; it had been totally unnecessary for Otabek to lift the couch: Potya hadn’t been stuck at all, she just liked to sit in the one place beneath it where she could not be reached from any side, and yowl her heart out if she felt she was being ignored. Yuri had tried to tell Otabek this, but he had seemed dead set on ‘rescuing’ the cat. It was an odd but satisfying combination of cute and hot to watch, so Yuri had let it happen.

Either way, the couch was a fucking bitch to move and Yuri was silently grateful that he didn’t have to deal with hauling it down four flights of stairs and into a dumpster-- his back was already going to be sore enough tomorrow, as it was, and he’d barely managed to carry anything heavier than a box of blankets.

***

True to Yuri’s prediction, it had been two hours before he and Otabek had finally been able to sit down to dinner, eating very elegantly on a sheet in the middle of their new living room floor-- consuming their food straight out of takeout containers since they couldn’t be bothered to unpack that night. 

“So,” Otabek said as he rummaged through the takeout bag. They’d gotten it from a new place, closer to their new apartment than the old, shitty one next door to HellHole (fucking Mila!) and, on first examination, the place had seemed pretty fancy. “What do you want to sample first? There’s biryani, curry, samosas, and tandoori chicken,” he paused, “god, I can feel myself butchering both culinary and pronunciation culture.”

Yuri grinned, “Biryani, please, and you tried, that’s what counts.” Otabek tilted his head, handing over a container and two plastic forks. Yuri took them, and was just prying open the lid (why were takeout containers so _hard_ to open?) when Otabek let out a snort, drawing his attention. “What?” Yuri asked, glancing up from his wrestling match with the plastic lid.

Instead of responding, Otabek just reached into the brown paper bag and pulled out… 

“They sent us wine.” Otabek said, bemused, and stared at the bottle. 

Yuri blinked, before examining it, too. “Fuck,” he grumbled, shaking his head, “I’m never letting Mila give us a recommendation again-- let alone order for us. Demented, fucking hag.”

Otabek just laughed, standing up and going to rummage through one of the boxes marked, in Yuri’s very elegant, chicken scratch scrawl ‘kitchen shit.’ After a considerable amount of digging, he returned with two wine glasses and, stabbing one of his keys into the cork of the wine bottle and turning, it came out with a pop. Creative, Yuri had to admit. He’d have to try that one, later.

“Wine?” Otabek asked, holding up the now uncorked bottle and the glasses, “To celebrate moving in?”

“With Indian food,” Yuri remarked, “how very American of us.”

Otabek snorted, “We’re in New York now, Yuri, we have to adjust.” Yuri laughed and Otabek repeated his former question. “So, wine?”

Yuri pursed his lips; he’d never liked wine. “No thanks.”

Otabek nodded, before proceeding to pour a small amount into his glass and refill Yuri’s water. “You’re right,” he said, “you probably shouldn’t.”

Yuri tilted his head but didn’t remark on the odd-seeming comment, instead finally winning his tussle with the biryani and succeeding in popping the lid off… and catapulting half off the contents onto his shirt while doing so.

“Fuck!” Yuri exclaimed, staring at his previously white but now turmeric and oil-stained t-shirt. He’d liked it, too. 

Otabek handed him a few napkins, his expression suspiciously flat. Flatter than normal. 

A small snuffle made Yuri look up from where he was mopping his shirt, and he glared.

“Fuck off!” He threw the napkins at Otabek, who was now laughing openly, and, after maintaining his glare for a few, faltering seconds, Yuri joined in, if rather ruefully. 

The strange wine comment was driven out of his mind.

***

Sleeping on the floor in a blanket nest, it seemed, was not a great plan if one wanted to wake up on time. And if it was one’s first day back, one wanted to wake up on time.

 _“Fuck!”_ Yuri’s screech started Otabek awake, who was sleeping in a similar blanket den a few feet away, and he sat bolt upright as Yuri staggered to his feet and stumbled through the maze of boxes to get to the shower. Lilia was going to _kill him._ He was lucky enough that the wedding and two weeks’ ‘honeymoon’ had fallen in line with the university’s weird, end-of-summer-beginning-of-term, break thing (not a coincidence, he’d planned it that way), but he had forty-five minutes before he needed to be in class. Fuck, he was _so dead._

As Yuri catapulted himself headlong into the shower, completely forgoing washing his hair and brushing it as he scrubbed his body haphazardly with one hand under the still-cold spray, he heard distant rummaging and crinkling from the living room. Was Otabek unpacking _now,_ of all times? Whatever, Yuri didn’t have time to think about it as he moved out of the shower, thanking god that he and Otabek had set up the bathroom with the bare minimum the night before and he didn’t have to dig through boxes to access towels and a toothbrush.

A few minutes later and Yuri had wrestled his hair into a passable ballet bun and, towel slung precariously around his hips, stumbled out of the bathroom, already trying frantically to remember what box his dance clothes had gone in, when he came face to face with them. Sitting, folded neatly, on top of a box, his dance bag and a water bottle sitting next to them, his leotard, leggings, and a light, ballet cardigan waited for him outside of the bathroom. Yuri blinked, then, wondering distractedly if soulmates had mind reading powers, he disappeared back into the bathroom to change.

This time, when he emerged, hair dripping onto his light green sweater, he was met with Otabek himself, looking remarkably (un-fucking-fairly) put together and holding out a bag that Yuri identified as containing leftovers from last night by the smell. Yuri just stared at him for a moment as Otabek pushed the bag into his arms, holding up a set of keys in the other hand.

“What’s the address?” Otabek asked as they hurried down the stairs to the garage where his bike (motorcycle? Cool!!) was parked. 

Yuri was going to have to remember to buy him a new piano or something-- Otabek was the fucking _best._

***

When, fifteen minutes later, they pulled up just outside of Lilia’s dance hall at Juilliard, Yuri all but fell off the bike. Otabek reached out to steady him, planting his feet on the ground to keep the bike upright. 

“Thank you so much,” Yuri said, glancing at his phone to verify that he did, in fact, have five minutes before he’d officially be late. “I promise, I’m usually not such a mess.”

“Mila begs to differ,” and then the redhead was dragging Yuri off into the hall by the arm, and he was stumbling, trying to keep up and wave goodbye at the same time, as she lectured him on being on time, and, with an evil smile, on _not letting his late-night activities fuck up practice._

The choice of words wasn’t a coincidence.

Yuri was going to buy Otabek a piano, and then drop it on Mila’s head.

***

Practice was hell, and moving boxes the day before certainly hadn’t done Yuri any favors, but it was a good hell, a familiar hell, and Yuri relished in his sore, stiff muscles as he changed. It meant he’d done well, and Lilia hadn’t made any more snippy remarks than usual, so he decided to call today a victory. His only regret was that he’d have to walk four blocks to the subway back to the stop near his apartment. While he kind of enjoyed aching feet, he’d prefer not to have to stand on them for too long. 

Groaning slightly as he trooped out of the locker room, stalwartly ignoring Mila for her earlier remark, Yuri dug in his bag for his phone and earbuds. He was just wondering if they were, in fact, in there at all (after all, it hadn’t been him who’d packed his bag) when he nearly crashed into a pillar in the courtyard and had to look up.

Yuri was buying Otabek a _grand piano._

The man in question waved, albeit slightly nervously, from where he stood in the parking lot, leaning against his bike with what looked like a small pastry bag in hand.

Yuri laughed in delight and disbelief, his feet breathing an expectant sigh of relief. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asked as he walked up to Otabek and the bike. He perked up even further when he saw a tall cup of coffee waiting on the seat and caught a whiff of what smelled suspiciously like some sort of muffin from inside the bag. Was there something bigger than a grand piano? He’d have to do some Googling.

“Uh,” Otabek said, looking slightly nervous and rubbing the back of his neck. “I saw a nice bookstore a few blocks down, Harold’s, and lost like five hours to Ruth Ware and smart houses. By the time I looked up, it was almost two o’clock, and I figured I’d give you a ride home; it took a few tries to find my way back to the right place, but I got here. Do you mind?”

Yuri just rolled his eyes. “Dipshit. You just saved me from a ten-minute walk through the cold, _crowded_ streets of New York to an even more crowded, even more _smelly_ subway: I could kiss you right now.” They both froze. 

Yuri blinked. 

Otabek blinked.

“Do you like decaf coffee? It was all they had besides black, and I thought it would be safer.” Otabek asked abruptly, breaking the silence forcefully and holding out the travel cup sitting on the motorcycle’s seat. 

“Yeah,” Yuri said, taking it. “I do. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Otabek said as Yuri perched precariously on the seat of the motorcycle beside him. “There’s a cranberry muffin, too,” he held it out, “I got one at the cafe in the shop and it was pretty good; I thought you might like it.”

“Thanks,” Yuri said, taking the proffered bag with maybe a little more enthusiasm than was socially appropriate. He had just danced for two hours straight, sue him. 

They stood and sat respectively together in silence, Yuri occasionally failing to stifle a quiet moan of delight at the food or asking Otabek questions about his book that was now visible, peeking out of the inside of the leather jacket. Yuri had just finished the coffee (having long ago inhaled the muffin) and, after trashing the containers, was climbing (less than gracefully; whatever) back onto the bike beside Otabek when he smirked. 

“See?” Yuri said as he put on his helmet. “We’re great at _not being awkward.”_ Otabek chose that moment to start driving and Yuri scrambled forward to get a secure grasp around his waist, but Yuri thought he could hear, just beneath the roar of the engine, a muffled groan. Yuri cackled all of the way home.

***

“You need to stop doing this,” Yuri stated flatly as he came face-to-face with Otabek just outside the dance hall. “Don’t you have anything better to do than wait in a snowy courtyard to pick me up?”  
Otabek shrugged, pushing off of the pillar. “It isn’t that snowy-- just a dusting.” He said, and Yuri rolled his eyes.

“You know what I meant, asshole.” It didn’t stop him from slipping his hand into Otabek’s larger one as they set off across the thin blanket of white. 

“I saw you dance.” Otabek said, and Yuri’s head snapped toward him, the subject successfully changed. “Through the window, I mean,” Otabek explained, and, before Yuri’s ‘stalker,’ comment was fully formed, he continued, “you’re amazing. Like, the best out of everyone. You even demonstrated!”

“It was a solo, dipshit,” Yuri huffed fondly, shaking his head. “You did notice that I did _different choreography_ than everyone else?” Otabek paused, a furrow forming between his brows. Yuri huffed a laugh, “You really know _nothing_ about ballet, Altin, it’s sad.”

“Then teach me,” Otabek challenged, a playful lilt to his voice. “I’m a willing student-- after all, I should know _something_ about the witchcraft my _husband_ performs on a daily basis.”

“Really?” Yuri asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not sure you could handle it.”

“Really.” Otabek replied. “Do your worst.”

“Okay, you asked for it,” Yuri said, and, to Otabek’s obvious surprise (and Yuri’s obvious amusement) stopped dead in the middle of the courtyard. “This is called a pas-de-bourree, watch.”

“I thought this was going to be more like theory stuff--” Otabek said nervously as Yuri stepped away from him.

Yuri snorted. “Baby. It’s easy: literally three steps. Look.” He demonstrated slowly. “Now you try.”

Otabek frowned deeply but mimicked Yuri’s motions as best he could. Yuri giggled. “Shut up!” Otabek said defensively, looking indignantly at him, “I’m not a dancer!” 

“Here,” Yuri was Very Obviously trying not to laugh as he walked over and guided Otabek’s motions. “Back, side, front-- that’s it!” Otabek grinned in pride as he accomplished the move. “You’ll be the next principle in no time!”

“You know it,” Otabek grinned, “better watch your back, Plisetsky, I’m coming for your crown.”

Yuri gasped in mock-horror. “Oh you wish, Altin!” He exclaimed, a competitive sparkle in his eye as he pranced a few paces away from Otabek. “Give me 30 fouettes, then-- chop chop!” And, as if to punctuate his point, Yuri moved into what Otabek would later learn was fourth position (why were there so many? What happened to three?) and kicked up. 

Otabek let out a little gasp as Yuri turned (in what Otabek assumed were fouettes), kicking his leg out every time he spun around. Otabek let out a bigger gasp when Yuri’s foot slid in the fresh, slippery sheet of snow and he lurched toward the ground. (Yuri let out a Very Undignified screech at the occurrence, which he would later deny-- even under great duress.)

Otabek scrambled forward, sliding in the snow, and managed to catch Yuri before he plummeted to his untimely, snowy end. The force of Otabek’s panicked leap, though, caused him to overbalance, and, after a couple, comedic seconds of slipping and sliding, Yuri clinging to Otabek’s shoulders for dear life, Otabek fell with a whump onto the cobblestones, Yuri splayed in his lap.

 _“Yuri Plisetsky!”_ The couple had barely enough time to realize what had happened when an angry, though eternally dignified, call drew their attention. Lilia Baranovskaya, former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet, one of the most revered and honored dancers in the world, and Yuri’s current director, stood a few feet away from them, glaring as they both froze under her, frankly terrifying, gaze. “Let me remind you that your place in this year’s production of _The Nutcracker_ is earned. These childish antics are unbecoming and a danger to your body-- if you _dare_ show up to practice with a broken ankle, you will have deserved it for your reckless and ridiculous behavior. Now get out of the snow this instant, the both of you; if you show up with a _cold,_ there will be no sympathy.” She gave a haughty sniff and strode away, balancing perfectly on four inch stiletto heels over cobblestones and snow.

For a moment, both Yuri and Otabek were still. 

Then--

They burst into giggles at the exact same moment, and, as much as they tried, their laughter soon became loud and cachinnatory. Yuri clung to Otabek’s lapels as he convulsed with mirth, and Otabek, beneath him, held on with a hand on his thigh and another around his waist. 

It took several minutes for them to calm down, and when they had eventually helped each other up, slipping and sliding in the melted slush, new fits of giggles erupted as Yuri saw the state of the motorcycle. Otabek had had the good sense to cover it with a tarp-ish, blanket-looking thing, and the entire vehicle was covered in snow; it looked like a great, lumpy monster. 

As Otabek busied himself with shaking snow away in a manner that would -- hopefully -- cause the least to fall onto the bike itself and Yuri stood by, arms wrapped around his waist and giggling unhelpfully, Yuri came to the conclusion that, maybe, just in this case, arranged marriages weren’t so bad, after all.

***

“Did Beka give you a ride again?” Mila asked one day as she and Yuri sat down in one of their Gen. Ed. classes.

“Fuck off, Baba, only I can call him that,” Yuri said immediately, rummaging through his bag for his Psych 101 book. Yuri shoved her; he could _feel_ Mila’s smirk. “And no? He got up for the studio early this morning, was gone before I left; I caught the subway. Why?”

Mila shrugged as she flipped open her binder and uncapped her pen. “No reason, you just smell like him-- I thought you might’ve been doing some _cuddling_ or something.” Mila grinned devilishly at Yuri, her meaning clear, before spotting Sara and waving her over to sit on her other side. Yuri, on the other hand, froze.

For once, he didn’t snap at Mila for the innuendo-- something else she’d said had stuck in his mind. Curled over, mid-rummage through his bag, his Psych book halfway into the world, Yuri had a heart attack. How had he not thought of it? He was so _stupid._

Yuri had spent his heat with Otabek. He had come out of it practically drenched in the alpha’s pheromones, and, up until now, he hadn’t thought anything of it, only that it had happened. Now though, oh god, this was so _obvious--_ how had he not even considered it?!

Yuri hadn’t been sexually active (hadn’t even considered it; he hadn’t had a partner for months, with the stress of dance) before the wedding, and, therefore, hadn’t been on any form of birth control.   
Normally, he took it religiously, but money had been tight and if it wasn’t _strictly necessary…_ Yuri had just, let it go. And then he had spent his heat with an, by the looks and scents of it, _extremely_ fertile alpha, a top mate and breeding partner. Yuri felt sick. 

And now he smelled like him. Yuri hadn’t spent any time with Otabek for the last two days (the latter man had been holed up in his recording studio, inspiration having struck him, or whatever), and he smelled like him, more than he would by just living with him. More than he would by just sitting across from him when Yuri dragged Otabek out of his recording cave at mealtimes. Enough that it had been noticeable; enough that _Mila,_ of all people, had remarked upon it. Yuri was definitely going to puke.

It all seemed so _clear_ now. It was so _obvious;_ how hadn’t he realized? Even beyond the initial reason to suspect, Otabek’s behavior had all but _proven_ it. Otabek had run to take Yuri’s place when lifting the couch: Yuri hadn’t been allowed to lift anything much more than boxes of pillows and blankets the entire time they were moving-- Otabek or Leo always rushing over to take the heavy things out of his hands. At the time he’d thought that they were being considerate, Otabek wanting to earn a few brownie points and Leo wanting to make a good second first impression, maybe, but now…

And later that night, when Otabek had offered him wine! 

_“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t.”_

He’d said that after Yuri had refused. Yuri hadn’t known what to make of it then, but now…

And the decaf coffee, too-- god Yuri was such an idiot. Otabek had literally said that it was _safer_ than black coffee-- safer! At the time, Yuri had just thought of the health benefits (though, wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?), but now… 

Now, there was no denying it. No other conclusion could be reached; no other conclusion was _feasible._ Yuri was-- he swallowed.

Yuri was pregnant.

“Yura!” Mila smacked him on the arm and pulled him back up to a sitting position. “Class is about to start, dipshit, pay attention!”

Yuri swallowed. He didn’t hear a word of the lecture.

***

When Yuri got home that night, he felt ill. Not ill as in fifteen-minute-subway-ride-next-to a-really-smelly-guy-with-mold-in-his-beard, but ill as in I’m-about-to-puke-my-guts-out-and-now-I-know-why. By the time Yuri got back to the apartment, trudging up the stairs because the sweet, little old lady from next door had been on the elevator, the one who _loved_ to talk about how cute he and Otabek were together and tell them that their children would be movie stars and Yuri, while thinking it was nice and passing it off for a later decade, before, _just couldn’t deal with it_ now, he only wanted to pass out in bed and sleep. Instead, though, the second he stepped into the apartment he was met with a blast of garlic and tomato, and, of course, prevalent over all else today, Otabek’s scent. The scent Yuri found so alluring most days, had often wanted to bury his nose in Otabek’s shoulder to smell more clearly, the scent he _loved_ to be covered in by wearing Otabek’s sweaters. 

Today, though, Yuri just wanted to get _away_ from it, but, and what made him really want to cry (though he assumed that that would start happening more often, soon-- hormones and all) was the fact that he _still_ wanted to go into Otabek’s arms and be engulfed in that warm, reassuring embrace, cover himself in that safe, lovely scent until all of his problems melted away. Part of Yuri knew that that was likely an instinct caused by his… condition; he’d been in ABO Bio as a teen, knew that the omega would feel the desperate _need_ to be claimed by their alpha during this time, especially the early months, as a way of making sure that their alpha would accept the child as their own and all that, but still, Yuri _hated_ it. 

“Yura,” Otabek turned, smiling, to face Yuri in the entryway. He wore the stupid ‘The Man ↑ The Legend ↓’ apron Mila had bought him in the pursuit of seeing Yuri’s, rather fabulous, tomato impression again, and a large, floppy, white chef’s hat as he brandished a wooden spoon. “You’re home. I’m making pasta! Leo taught me-- I thought this might be a good way to apologize for ignoring you lately?” He looked adorably hopeful. “You like penne, right? I got that garlic, tomato, basil sauce from the store, too-- it’s your favorite.”

Yuri could hardly move, standing in the hallway, door barely shut behind him, clutching a bag dripping with melted snow and looking about the equivalent of a drowned rat. “Uh,” he managed, “yeah.” 

Otabek frowned. “Yura?” He asked, stepping closer, concern written all over his face, “Are you alright? Do you not like it? We can order in, if you want, I know I’m not the best cook…”

“I’m fine,” Yuri rushed, feeling doubly terrible at Otabek’s sad, little, kicked puppy expression. “It looks great.”

Otabek’s eyebrows creased; god, was Yuri really that obvious? Or did Otabek just know him that well? Yuri’s stomach turned at the thought that it was probably the latter, and he clutched his bag more tightly to him, like a shield. Otabek noticed.

He stepped forward, reaching out, only a few paces away from Yuri in the open floor plan. “What’s wrong?” He asked gently, “You’re not yourself--” He moved forward, doubtlessly trying to pull Yuri into his arms, but Yuri backed away. Otabek froze, his eyes flashing with hurt before he schooled his expression. “Did I do something wrong?”

And now Yuri wanted to cry again. Damn Otabek and his stupidly effective puppy dog eyes! Damn these fucking hormones! Damn the fucking _cause_ of them!

“No,” Yuri said too quickly, biting his lip, “sorry, I just don’t feel well. The pasta looks amazing.”

Obviously seeing right through him, but being the patient saint that he was, Otabek only nodded encouragingly. “Why don’t you get changed?” He suggested gently, carefully moving away and gesturing toward the bedroom doors, next to each other on the opposite wall. “You look soaked through-- the snow’s already menaced your bag, there’s no reason for you to be its next victim.” He tried for a joke, giving a small smile.

Yuri forced a strained smile one in response and handed Otabek his bag when he held out his hands to take it. Grateful for the release, Yuri hurried off to his bedroom, closing and locking the door firmly behind him. 

It wasn’t that Otabek wouldn’t give him his space, -- he would, the man was an angel like that -- Yuri just felt so… exposed. He needed an extra layer of protection right now.

Yuri curled up, still in his wet clothes, on top of the bedspread, scrunching up into, as he realized with a jolt, a fetal position. Heart hammering, tears threatening to fall, Yuri unfolded himself immediately and hugged a pillow to his chest to stop his gaze from resting on a place that, soon enough, would be significantly rounder.

Yuri pushed his face into the pillow. He couldn’t do this. He _couldn’t_ do this. He was a dancer-- he was in his second to last year at Juilliard and after that he already had an invitation to join the New York City Ballet. He had _plans,_ he had a future, a carefully thought out, meticulously organized future. A future that did not include a baby.

Yuri swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, tears pricking his eyes as he squeezed them shut. It would be okay. He’d get an abortion, it would all be over, nothing would change, nothing would be ruined, and it would all be okay.

. . . But what about Beka? His sweet, caring, gentle Beka who dressed up in ridiculous chef’s hats and brandished wooden spoons if he thought that he’d been ignoring Yuri. His wonderful, loving Beka who had caught him when he’d slipped in the snow, had supported him at their wedding. His kind, generous Beka who had helped Yuri’s grandfather without a second thought, who was so compassionate and accepting and had taken Yuri for who and what he was. Yuri’s stomach clenched and he had to physically resist moving a hand to rest on it.

Would Yuri say anything? Beka, presumably, already knew, but maybe Yuri could pretend that he had lost it, or just hadn’t conceived at all. But what if Beka brought it up before Yuri could figure out what he wanted to do; what if Beka wanted to _keep_ the baby? Would Yuri have an abortion secretly? Did he really want to start his marriage to a man he was afraid to say he’d fallen in love with, a man he _couldn’t_ lose, with a lie? And such an important lie, too? The tears Yuri had been fighting to suppress leaked from the corners of his eyes, sliding across his nose and onto the opposite cheek.

Yuri couldn’t have a baby. He _couldn’t._ It would ruin everything. He would lose _everything_ he’d worked so hard for. But, at the root of it all, he knew he couldn’t lose Beka. And, if Yuri was going to be brutally honest, he wasn’t sure if he could abort Beka’s baby, at all.

***

Dinner was awful. Yuri had taken far too long to emerge from his bedroom and Otabek, obviously very worried but trying not to show it, had been caught lingering in the kitchen, staring at Yuri’s closed door. 

The entire evening Yuri had been as good as silent, leaving Otabek to make nervous smalltalk and to try to engage Yuri in conversation, attempts that Yuri always managed to bring to a crashing halt even when he actively tried to keep them going.

The food had been good, at least, which Yuri had been sure to tell Otabek several times, but every bite had upset his stomach and eventually he’d had to give up altogether for fear of puking. And Otabek noticed. When he’d tried to tempt Yuri with his favorite delicacy from the little bakery down the street, Tiramisu, Yuri had just clamped his jaw shut and shaken his head mutely to stop himself from gagging. 

And, worst of all of it, after dinner Otabek had taken Yuri’s hand, pausing when Yuri had flinched before, very gently, very slowly, reaching out and twining their fingers (Yuri hated himself for leaning into the touch), and leading him into the little, living room area. Then he had proceeded to turn on the CD player and play a song for Yuri. One of Otabek’s songs. One of Otabek’s songs that he had written _for_ and _about_ Yuri. One of multiple. 

The song had been beautiful, it had been what Otabek had been holed up working on, Otabek had explained; and, with a hopeful, joking tone of voice, that Yuri would have to wait until the other ones were ready to hear them. Then, in a vulnerable, anxious voice, he had asked if Yuri had liked it. 

And Yuri, the bastard that he was, had _paused._ He had _paused,_ and that had been answer enough for Otabek, who had looked heartbroken and obviously didn’t believe it when Yuri frantically reassured him that he had _loved_ it, that it had been _beautiful,_ and _thank you_ for doing it. 

In reality, the only reason Yuri hadn’t responded immediately was that he had been struggling not to cry, not to break down into sobs in Otabek’s arms, then and there. As it was, Yuri had barely been able to make it back to his room, leaving a crestfallen Otabek in his wake, before he’d broken down. 

When, later, Otabek had knocked quietly on his door with a mug of hot chocolate and whipped cream, chocolate shavings and peppermint marshmallows on top, Yuri had let himself be pulled into a comforting embrace, had sniffled like an idiot in Otabek’s arms. And Otabek had just held him fast, stroking his hair as he cried pathetically, nodding gently when Yuri bleated feebly that he had just had a bad day, and, no, nothing was wrong, and, no, he didn’t want to talk about it.

Yuri hated himself for longing to be cuddled, hated himself for curling into Otabek’s embrace and clinging to him as he cried. He had been cold and distant all evening, had shitted on Otabek’s carefully planned, romantic dinner, and had proceeded to as good as say that he didn’t like the song Otabek had written for him-- and all of that before he sought Otabek’s comfort, curling desperately into his touch when all evening he’d been flinching away from Otabek’s every move toward him. Yuri was a terrible human being. And, when Otabek noticed that Yuri’s sheets were still soaked from where he’d lain on them earlier, Yuri let him change them, let Otabek push him gently back down into a chair when he’d risen to help, let him hand him his hot chocolate, and let him leave with just a soft kiss to his temple when he was done.

Yuri truly didn’t deserve this man. He’d buy him 100 concert grand pianos and they’d never be enough. On its own, Yuri’s hand wandered down to his abdomen. 

***

The next week was terrible. For many, many reasons. 

The first, and likely most damning, was that Yuri had been dancing _terribly._ Ever since finding out about the baby, Yuri had been a mess in more ways than one. He’d been jerking poor Otabek around, as much as he tried not to and he’d been dancing badly enough that Lilia had taken him aside more than once to ask if something was wrong (no), to ask if he was injured because he _literally couldn’t dance_ (no), and, eventually, to threaten him with taking away his role if he couldn’t get his shit together. Not using that wording, of course. 

Mila had taken him aside to ask if there was anything wrong between him and Otabek (no), and had even offered to stay behind after class to help Yuri fix the parts of his solo that were currently falling apart at the seams (though, honestly, all of it was). And it was _his_ solo, too; Mila had learned his choreography, apparently, and was now offering to help him with it _on top_ of her own as Clara. 

As hard as Yuri worked, though, all of his skill had apparently evaporated. He was screwing up basic moves-- he’d almost tripped himself on a pas de bourree the other day, and had nearly cried in class when Lilia had yelled at him for it. And he had _deserved_ to be yelled at for it-- she’d let him off easily.

(A part of him wondered if it was the baby screwing him up, if his balance had been affected by it growing and changing his center of gravity. Logically, he knew that it was far too early for that to be the case, but he wanted to blame the baby, anyway. He _wanted_ to believe any reason other than that he was just falling apart of his own accord.)

And, on top of everything, Yuri had started getting morning sickness. Every day, morning, noon, and night, he was running to the bathroom to puke his guts out, which, naturally, only made his dancing worse. As much as Yuri had been trying to hide it from Otabek, too, he had obviously noticed, and had started making meals for Yuri, gently pushing them on him in what Yuri assumed were the hopes that he’d keep eating enough. Mercifully, though, he had never said anything to Yuri, interpreting (correctly) from the latter’s behavior that he _did not want to talk about this._ Yuri honestly wasn’t sure if he was grateful for the man’s undying patience and (undeserved) faith in him, or frustrated that he wouldn’t just call him out on his bullshit and force him to talk about it.

At that moment in time, though, that wasn’t the point. At the moment, the important thing was that Lilia was speaking to Alexander in undertones as the rest of the class warmed up, and they were both glancing periodically at Yuri. 

That familiar nausea churned in Yuri’s gut, and he pressed his body flat against the floor in a hip-opener stretch, praying that that would help it subside. If he was going to be honest with himself, which he most definitely _wasn’t,_ he would be able to admit that doing what he was doing was just stupid. Ignoring a problem didn’t make it go away, and, in his case, pretending to ignore it but internally obsessing over it just sent Yuri’s life to hell in a handbasket. 

He was pretty sure he was being replaced, or at least had had his understudy told to get ready to assume his part if he couldn’t get his act together; he was screwing up his relationship with his soulmate without even giving the poor man a reason why; and he couldn’t make a decision over what to do about arguably the most important thing in his life.

Talk to Beka? No. Get an abortion in secret and then lie? No. Talk to Beka and get an abortion despite him probably wanting to keep it? No. Keep it?… Yuri just-- he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, anymore, but he did know that he would have to figure things out soon enough.

By Yuri’s estimates, he was about two months along, and, though he would rather chew off his own foot and then perform the Dance of the Black Swan, 32 fouettes and all, he would have to start going to appointments at an OB, soon. If he decided to keep it, that was. And, honestly, Yuri wasn’t convinced that an abortion was the way to go. He didn’t have a problem with it, had always ridiculed rich, old, male alphas trying to control peoples’ bodies, and had gone to several Pro-Choice rallies in the city, but, for him… Well, everyone was different, and, while Yuri was fairly sure that, had the baby been someone else’s, he wouldn’t have hesitated, the fact was that it was _Beka’s,_ and Yuri didn’t know if he could do it.

It wasn’t as if he doubted that Otabek would support him, Yuri knew he would, even if he wanted to keep the baby, but the idea of terminating a piece of Otabek, _killing_ a potential baby-Beka, it just didn’t seem right to Yuri. Maybe it was because Yuri was feeling certain ways toward Otabek, ways that had too few syllables for how important they were and started with the second letter of Yuri’s last name, but the thought of aborting Beka’s baby, _their_ baby, had sent Yuri, retching, into the bathroom several times, already. 

“Yuri!” Lilia clapped and Yuri jumped, coming up off the floor and finding her and Alexander standing above him. “For this class, Alexander will be following you, echoing your movements as your understudy. Take him through the fine points of the role.” 

Yuri nodded mutely and switched legs. After a long, penetrating stare, Lilia swept away.

***

Alexander wasn’t as good as Yuri, that much was obvious from the get-go. Currently, though, Alexander wasn’t tripping over his own feet and falling out of his turns after only three, wobbly rotations, so he certainly seemed the more suitable candidate for the leading role. Honestly, Yuri was convinced that the only reason he hadn’t been shoved to the back of the ensemble, already, was the striking difference between Yuri at top form and Alexander at top form. Lilia was obviously holding out hope that Yuri would break out of his funk and come back better than ever. Yuri wasn’t sure if he’d be able to come back at all.

“Are you okay?” 

Yuri snapped out of his trance. “What?” He blinked.

Alexander gestured to Yuri from where he stood next to him, stretching at the barre. “You’re holding your stomach-- do you feel well?” 

Yuri blanched, and, to his horror, looked down to find that his hand was, indeed, resting on his abdomen. With a snappy, jerky movement, Yuri flung it away as if burned. “I’m fine,” Yuri said quickly, and lost no time in going into a standing split en pointe, taking slight satisfaction in having succeeded in distracting Alexander’s line of questioning, and watching the beta flail as he tried desperately to copy Yuri’s stance. He wasn’t as flexible as Yuri, and, as Yuri was the only male in the class who danced en pointe, trying to match Yuri’s split only on releve was a challenge, to say the least.

Yuri suppressed a grim smile when Lilia passed by, nodded approvingly at Yuri’s form, and clucked at Alexander that he needed to stretch more. Yuri personally thought that he would benefit from some time on a balance board, too, with how he swayed precariously in his releve and grabbed repeatedly onto the barre to stay standing. But Yuri’s confident, self-satisfied, little bubble was promptly popped when he fumbled his fouette as, next to him, Alexander finished perfectly. 

Yuri reminded himself to do some extra drills, that night, and reset his poker face.

***

All of the drills in the world, it seemed, wouldn’t save Yuri’s performance, and, as Lilia told him sternly a week later, if Yuri didn’t get back to normal by Friday, Alexander would have his role, and Yuri would sit the show out. 

Yuri was desperate not to let that happen: this might well be his last show for years-- he couldn’t miss it. And because his emotions were all over the place, Mila found him seated on a bench in the locker room, sobbing into Otabek’s sweater that he had long since stolen, that day after class. 

“Yura,” she murmured, hurrying over to sit next to him, “I was trying to find you-- you forgot your shoes-- what’s wrong?” Yuri just shook his head as he cried, and Mila wrapped her arms around him. For once, Yuri didn’t push her off; he needed all the comfort he could get. “Yura, talk to me,” Mila cajoled softly, “what happened? Is it something with Otabek?” She glanced at the sweater Yuri clung to even as he shook his head. 

Yuri pushed his face further into the oversized sweater, seeking the comfort that stemmed from Otabek’s scent. He’d been seeking it out recently, both the scent and the man it belonged to, even before he’d realized that he was pregnant, and now, even though he knew it was just his instincts, he couldn’t get himself to stop. Every day he swaddled himself in stolen pieces of Otabek’s clothing, and, when Otabek came home and wrapped his arms around him, giving Yuri a soft kiss, Yuri felt just, slightly better. Sniffling, Yuri nodded slowly; he’d need a lot of hugs from Otabek tonight. 

Mila sighed softly. “Yura, please talk to me,” she said, rubbing his back as his sobs died slowly down, “I know something’s wrong-- you’re more obvious than you think.”

Yuri let out a wet, choked laugh in spite of himself. “Did my dancing give it away?”

Mila gave him a pained, little smile and pulled him into her side. “What’s wrong?” She asked again, “I can’t help if I don’t know.”

Yuri’s eyebrows furrowed. “You do know,” he muttered, shaking his head, “don’t lie.”

“No?” Mila looked confused, shaking her head at Yuri as if he was a particularly stupid toddler. “I don’t know. Care to let me in on the secret?”

“Stop it,” Yuri mumbled, irritated now. “There’s no fucking point in pretending. You know you know, so just admit it.”

“Yuri,” Mila said slowly, hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 _“Yes,_ you do know!” Yuri snapped, “Everybody knows-- you knew before me!”

“I _don’t_ know!” Mila replied, frazzled, “Yuri, what the hell are you talking about?”

 _“I’m pregnant!”_ Yuri’s yell echoed around the locker room, bouncing off of the walls and the ceilings. 

Yuri stilled.

Mila stilled.

Then, finally,

 _“What?”_ Mila asked, eyes bulging. “How--? When--?”

“What do you mean how?” Yuri rolled his eyes wearily, leaning back into the bench. “My heat, Baba, how else?”

Mila looked So Confused; Yuri couldn’t understand why. “What do you mean, your heat?” She asked slowly. 

“Beka fucked me, now I’m pregnant.” Yuri muttered, running a hand over his face and hunching forward into himself. “Simple as that.”

Suddenly, understanding bloomed on Mila’s face, and a look of sheer relief followed. “Yuri,” she said seriously, eyes glowing, “you’re not pregnant.”

Yuri scowled. “Okay, I know you subscribe to the whole ‘if you set your mind to it, you can do it’ type of bullshit, but that doesn’t really apply here.”

Mila rolled her eyes, impatient. “No!” She said enthusiastically. “I mean it, Yuri, you’re not pregnant!”

“Mila, drop it.” Yuri growled, so not in the mood for this. “I’m pregnant, I’ve accepted it, I’m talking to Beka when I get home, so fuck off.”

“No!!” Mila insisted, pulling Yuri back when he tried to stand. “You don’t understand: you _can’t_ be pregnant-- Otabek didn’t sleep with you during your heat.” 

Yuri blinked.

“What?” He asked, incredulous, “Of course he did-- why wouldn’t he?”

“No, Yuri, he didn’t-- I know, I was there the whole time!” Mila nodded vigorously. “Unless you’ve slept with him since,” Yuri shook his head weakly, “then you physically _can’t_ be pregnant.”

Yuri’s head was spinning. He slumped down back onto the bench. “But,” he murmured, his entire world turned on its head. “But you said that I smell like Otabek!”

Mila shrugged, “So?” She said, “You two live in close quarters-- hell, I think you were even wearing his jacket that day. It’s not a surprise that you’ve been sharing scents-- I smell like Sara, too.”

Yuri shook his head. No, this couldn’t be true. “Otabek was there after my heat,” he said stubbornly, “I smelled just like him-- he must’ve been all over me!”

“I was there the whole time,” Mila said, “He never touched you inappropriately, though you did refuse to let go of him.” Yuri’s world was falling down around him.

“But I’ve been sick,” he said petulantly, his last ditch attempt to resurrect the reality he knew. “I’ve been vomiting for weeks.”

“The Placebo Effect,” Mila said kindly, reassuring as Yuri stared at her, lost. “We learned about it in Psych-- if you’d bothered to pay attention, you’d know that when people believe that something is true, they normally start acting like it is. Like when doctors tell their patients that they gave them meds but it was really just water, and the patients believe it and get better. Yura,” she said kindly, “you convinced yourself you were pregnant-- it’s not so strange that your body believed it, too.”

Yuri shook his head wonderingly. “This whole time…” he murmured, “I thought-- I’m not--”

“No.” Mila squeezed his hand, and jumped slightly when Yuri lurched up. 

“I have to go,” Yuri said quickly, “I need to talk to Beka.”

“Good luck!” Mila had just enough time to yell before Yuri was gone, sprinting out of the locker room.

***

“I’m not pregnant!” Otabek jumped, nearly falling off the couch when the door banged open and Yuri flew like a fury into the apartment. 

“Yura, what--” He began, but Yuri cut him off.

“I’m not pregnant!” He yelled again, fury etched in his features.

“Okay?” Otabek said, lost and confused, “Why would you be?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri cried, “certainly not because you spent my heat with me!”

“I didn’t--” Otabek began quickly, “Mila--”

“I know,” Yuri snapped, cutting him off. “Mila told me: she was there the whole time, you didn’t touch me, blah, blah, blah, but _why didn’t you tell me?!”_

“That you’re not pregnant?” Otabek tried, slightly scared.

 _“YES!”_

“Sorry,” he said quickly, “I thought you knew!” Then, as it dawned on him. “Wait, have you been thinking--”

 _“Yup!”_

Otabek winced, “I’m so sorry-- I had no idea. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know!” Yuri was still upset, but now it was verging more in the direction of desperate tears than anger. “You kept treating me like I was! You were all sweet and helpful-- I thought you wanted to keep it.”

Otabek shook his head, before, carefully, holding his arms out to Yuri, and, after a second’s deliberation, was rewarded with a lap full of disgruntled blond. 

“But you wouldn’t let me carry the couch.” Yuri said, demanding an explanation as he stared up at Otabek from his arms.

“When we were moving?” Yuri nodded, “I just didn’t want to fuck up your practice the next day-- Leo and I were taking all of the heavy things from Mila, too.”

“You said I shouldn’t have wine!”

“Again, I thought that drinking was probably bad before a big rehearsal-- I don’t know how you do things in dance.”

“You said that decaf coffee was safer than black coffee-- even when there’s a bunch of shitty chemicals in decaf!”

“There are?” Otabek blinked, “Isn’t that black coffee?”

“No!”

“Oh,” he swallowed, looking guilty, “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” He murmured into Yuri’s hair, and he sounded so, truly apologetic that Yuri just couldn’t be mad anymore. 

“Me too,” Yuri mumbled after a long silence, pressing his face into Otabek’s shoulder and inhaling that wonderful scent-- finally able to do so without feeling dirty. “I should’ve talked to you. I just thought--” he sighed, “I don’t know. I’m not ready for a kid right now, and I was afraid you were.”

“No.” Otabek shook his head. “I’d like to have kids eventually, maybe in like, a decade, but not if you don’t want to-- _never_ if you don’t want to.”

Yuri nodded against him, and, gently, pressed his lips against his husband's.

*** A little over a month later ***

Yuri stood on the stage to uproarious applause, grinning from ear to ear as he bowed and was pelted with flower bouquets thrown from the audience. He had done it! He had _done it!_ He had even been the best Nutcracker at Juilliard for three decades, according to the stage manager.

Yuri couldn’t stop smiling as he came off of the stage, entering the wings with several bouquets in his arms. Ever since that day last month, he’d been dancing better than he ever had, and, after being assured that nothing like Yuri’s slump would ever happen again, Lilia had agreed to him retaining his role of leading man. After seeing Yuri and Alexander dance it side by side, though, she really hadn’t had much choice; it wasn’t a fair comparison.

Thanking people left and right as they swarmed him with praise, Yuri navigated through the crowds, searching for that one, familiar scent. Yuri smiled; there it was.

Otabek stood, grinning, at the back of the hall, an immense bouquet of (the cheesy sap) red roses in his arms and glowing with pride. The path suddenly unobstructed, Yuri launched himself at him, dropping his flowers as Otabek set his aside moments before the collision, proceeding to hold him tightly and kiss him senseless.

“So,” Yuri drew back, a tentative smile on his lips. “I think I might be in love with you.”

He could _feel_ Otabek’s smile. “Yura, I think I might be in love with you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing this: Yesss, they’re in loveeeee!!!  
> Me, rereading this: You dipshit, they’ve known each other for literally three months.  
> Ah, well, the muses will do what the muses will do. XD
> 
> (HellHole's naming credits go to the lovely members of the Superfan Discord server. Thanks!
> 
> If you feel so inclined, comments spur on my insanity, and I'd be thrilled if I was given a reason to continue with this madness! ♥


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